


Seek Thine Eyes in Summer

by Matloc



Series: Odes of Worship: fics centered around Kuroko or Akashi worship [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gods, M/M, eyyyy, happy vday, mild kuroko worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matloc/pseuds/Matloc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The god of summer waits a century for spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seek Thine Eyes in Summer

**Author's Note:**

> i am so sorry this is the shittiest fic in existence i wish i could have given you the top quality chocolates you deserve, Akashi-kun #90! i hope at least some bits here and there are to your liking. Happy Valentine’s Day! _(:3
> 
>  
> 
> i literally just ripped off one of Goethe’s little poems what even is creativity thank u Goethe for helping me thru these dark times as i drown in assignments

The water bobs with the weight of a swallow’s glide, breaking Seijuurou’s reflection for a heartbeat or two. His eyes follow the dark forked tail, expecting another ash-breasted companion in tow. Another bird that would chase the feathers and hail a coquettish Spring by its little feet. It is, after all, a season best commemorated by a pair of lovebirds.

The world has already begun to thaw; he can hear it in the light splash of water as the bird dives down again. Indeed, Spring may be due in the days to come.

But this is the first time he’s seen a swallow without a mate.

* * *

A fortnight passes quietly, bringing Spring nary a day closer. Perhaps the absurdity lies with Seijuurou, for waiting on nature’s whimsical moods. And it is at her cruel whim that Winter persists longer than it should, burying the world in soft tears that dot hilltops white and hang icicles on one’s breath.

If Tetsuya’s skin had ever felt that cold once, Seijuurou wouldn’t know. His betrothed, for a god, tires much too easily from the vicissitudes. Once wintery airs start nipping at fingertips, Tetsuya will retreat into slumber, undisturbed until the last patch of snow has melted. On a day auspicious enough, The God of Spring will finally emerge to walk around and let the earth bloom anew in his wake.

And during these vicissitudes of seasons, Seijuurou opts to stay and observe the world a little while longer, until the other wakes again. And every time, the wait grows colder, which only serves to endear to him the waking glimpses of Spring. The first pearl of morning dew hanging low from the lip of a leaf, the flutter of new colors on a butterfly rising from its chrysalis. Tetsuya often says he isn’t one for grandeur, but the seasons speak for themselves, as though imbuing Seijuurou’s affection into their touch when Spring greets his beloved with a shower of blushing flowers.

The fresh smell of the ocean pulls Seijuurou out of his musings. Ahead, the cliff is speckled with trace lilies, wee buds swaying in gentle ocean breeze. Some younglings brush the soles of his feet as he walks to the edge, bowing in early worship to their god.

All around him are signs of a world still in its infant moments of waking. The skies haven’t taken yet the shine Tetsuya brings. Nor has the wind dressed itself with the perfume of roses that seem to have stolen Tetsuya’s heart.

“They remind me of you,” he mentioned with a fond smile last time, playing with a scarlet petal. If Tetsuya had a way with words, Seijuurou decided then that he’d gladly let them lead him to wherever they wanted. Usually it ends with his hand tracing bare skin, marveling at the way it moves, the way it undulates to his touch. A sight lovely enough to snuff out protests, though he isn’t one to hold any. Being led around is a detail far too insignificant if the results ultimately fall in line with his interests. One he’s found himself so particularly invested in.

He’s often likened Tetsuya to an unfinished work of art, a masterpiece where the perfection, in all its muted tones, ends and gives itself over to jagged edges perhaps much too soon. Yet it is no surprise to Seijuurou how an uneven plateau can feel just as lovely to his fingers. The sharpness evokes a different sentiment, closer to a personal prayer of reverence than just the primordial awe a renaissance artist is struck with in the presence of his muse.

Seijuurou glances down at his hand, following the lines, the grooves, the ridges. How many times have they mapped Tetsuya’s body, and how many times before they mold themselves to his form? The lean muscles, the hard planes of his stomach, softening at the contours like he grew up stroked with feathers.

It should be amusing, a god taking up the act of wishing. He’s held more prayers than answered, and it is with unexpected bitterness he finds himself in the shoes of a mortal. But most humans hardly last as long as he has stayed in wait this time.

Being gods to a world ravaged by century-long winters has long lost its appeal. He could berate himself tirelessly for not stealing Tetsuya to the heavens, but not once does the thought cross his mind in all these years nor in spite of them. Watching those blue eyes light up at the sight of humans is enough to keep Seijuurou grounded. At least for now.

His eyes trace a dark line curving along his thumb—the life line, he once heard the humans call it. His fades just halfway through and he could laugh at the irony, but even if he was bound to time he thinks he could last a little longer. Waiting doesn’t hurt as much when death joins as one of its ends. When there _is_ an end in sight, no matter how dark, to the wait.

Underneath, the waves splash onto rocks with merriment in their colors. A cloudless blue the season of ice had misted obsolete. How long has he been standing here that he didn’t notice the skies clearing up?

“You look lost.”

Seijuurou whirls around, questioning just how much the tides of Winter have dulled his senses that he cannot even notice Tetsuya. Though the Spring deity has joked more than once or twice how he bears the presence of but a shadow, he’d normally at least feel the world shift to duly prepare for his lover’s awakening.

“You woke too early,” Seijuurou returns his greeting with thinned lips.

Tetsuya shakes his head, his light bangs swishing with the movement. “I’ve slept far too long.”

It’s true and it keeps Seijuurou quiet, even as his eyes rove over thin arms, paler than what he remembers Tetsuya to be, even when one look at his blue eyes could tell how lacking in rest they have been. It makes him wonder whether there is something human left in Tetsuya still. Where does it end and where does the god begin?

It would explain his infatuation with roses; he twirls one in his fingers as he walks over to Seijuurou, petals glistening red like the color of his hair, Tetsuya sang in his praise once.

Seijuurou takes a moment to seriously consider if there are human remnants inside him too, dwelling in the buds of his feelings, making them bloom with Spring in his heart as Tetsuya hands him the rose. “Forgive me.” He looks up through his lashes, to slyly rid Seijuurou of words no doubt. Lovers—and they have borne the title long enough for this—tend to share each other’s oddities over time. Little parts of themselves blending like watercolors on a blank canvas. “It took longer than I expected to look for one that would do you justice.”

Seijuurou smiles this time, a happy flush to his face. Definitely starting to share certain traits, he may protest, a bit resentfully at how Tetsuya’s charm lies in how natural he sounds. The romance so strikingly lost behind the earnest; how unfair a gift it must be that lets Tetsuya woo hearts like a troubadour without the intent. Seijuurou may protest that too, but he’s busy lacing his fingers with Tetsuya’s, trapping the stem in the gaps.

“I suppose it was worth the wait,” he teases before dipping his head down.

With a single touch, a summer sparks between their fingertips.


End file.
